What's Yours is Mine
by DreamingAngelWolf
Summary: Jack Benjamin is the Prince of Gilboa, Captain in the Army, heir to the throne. TJ Hammond is the former First Son of the President of America, gay icon, the life of the party. Neither expects this to change.


**AN: **I am so glad to finally get this up on here, you have no idea! It's been on my laptop for months, teasing me, and it felt so good to actually finish it at last! Have to say, credit for this idea goes entirely to princejackbenjamin on Tumblr, who was gracious enough to let me run with it ^_^ it didn't turn out quite as detailed as I originally envisaged, but I hope I got everything that matters down (and I hope I got the characters right - never written TJ and his family before, but I think they're ok...).

Anyways, it's up, and it's done. Apologies for any mistakes, I did a very hasty proof-read, but I hope people enjoy it!

* * *

><p><span>What's Yours is Mine<span>

Jack isn't one for panicking. It's one of the virtues taken from his parents, both of whom react to the unexpected with the sharp displeasure of royalty and the command to 'put it right'. That, and the military, taught Jack that to panic was to waste time and energy better spent resolving whatever situation one found themselves in. So when he wakes in a bed that isn't his, in a room that he doesn't recognise, Jack Benjamin does not panic.

Rubbing his eyes he sits up, switching on the bedside lamp and looking around the bedroom. Everything is fairly modern, from what he can tell: a large wardrobe stands against the far wall next to a door to an en suite; a chest of draws sits underneath the window to his left. The double bed has expensive sheets and a warm duvet with the kind of thick, plush pillows he's already used to. Photographs adorn the free wall-space, images of two young boys with parents and a grandmother. He has a vague sense of seeing them before, which is ridiculous – they aren't pictures of anyone he knows.

And yet…

A phone starts ringing off to his side. Finding it on the bedside table, Jack surprises himself by reaching out and answering it. "Hello?"

"Hey, it's me."

His brother. "What do you want?"

He can hear the smirk in Douglas' voice. "Well, aside from making sure you were actually conscious, I was calling to remind you that Anne and I'll be round at one to pick you up, so don't go disappearing beforehand."

"Right…" Pick him up for what? A pre-made arrangement hovers at the back of his mind, something important, something he can't miss. What it is, though, he can't for the life of him think.

"Jack?" Douglas calls. "You still there?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm… One o'clock. Got it."

"You've only just woken up, haven't you?"

"Well my goddamn phone was ringing," Jack snaps, "and I didn't want shit for not picking up." He tilts his head to look at the clock. "Besides, it's only ten-thirty."

Douglas laughs. "That's what you usually say at twelve!" Jack doesn't respond. "Fine," his brother sighs. "I'll see you later. Oh, and don't forget to wrap Nana's present this year, we can't have a repeat of last time."

"Uh, sure. Consider it done." He hangs up, tossing the phone back onto the bedside table and dragging his hands down his face. Nana's birthday, right. Mom wanted everyone over for lunch –

Jack frowns. He doesn't have a grandmother. He doesn't even have a brother. Sliding out of bed, he makes his way over to one of the photographs in the room, picking it up and studying it carefully; he recognises one of the young boys as him, and the other one looks similar enough to peg him as Douglas, his… brother. There is no sign of Michelle, and his 'parents' look completely different. But Jack knows them – they're his family, his mom and his dad with Nana off to the side. How could he not know them?

This, the Prince thinks, is an incredibly elaborate trick. Something of this scale would have taken months to prepare and plan, and what they've achieved is a little frightening; not only do they have modified pictures of him as a child, but they've managed to manipulate his memory faintly, too. Nobody in Gilboa could have pulled this off, and Gath wouldn't dare try. He goes over what had happened the previous night: he'd just come back from the front on leave, and had celebrated his return with a night out on the town, but aside from a few flashing lights and various glasses of alcohol Jack struggles to recall what occurred. Perhaps, then, he's been drugged, kidnapped by someone looking to bargain with his father – a new enemy? Or maybe even Gath after all? He reassures himself with the knowledge that, whatever has happened to him, his mother at least would be doing everything in her power to get him back. And if he is being held by some enemy nation, the King would want to make them pay for attacking him through his only son.

Until then, there's little he can do besides attend this birthday lunch. It isn't obvious that he's being held prisoner, and maybe the idea is to lull him into a false sense of security but Jack knows better, having learnt the art of deceit as a child. Let his captors think him in the palm of their hands – he could play the long game. Replacing the photograph, Jack makes his way over to the wardrobe, hoping it's stocked and with half-decent clothing.

* * *

><p>TJ stares, slack-jawed, at the contents of the wardrobe. There are a lot of suits – far more than he likes, however stylish they are – some nice-looking jackets, expensive jeans, flashy shoes… and a military dress uniform. He blinks at it, convinced now that he had way too much blow last night and is suffering some sort of hallucinatory karma. It's bad enough that he'd woken up in this huge, unrecognisable bedroom (although the four-poster bed and the silk sheets weren't too unpleasant) with some strange woman he half-knew telling him his father wanted him for breakfast, but now it appears as though he's in the military. Could it be a fancy-dress costume? He hopes so – he is probably the least-suitable candidate for the armed forces in the country.<p>

Resolutely ignoring the uniform, he gives in and pulls out a pair of jeans and a top, getting half-way to fully-dressed before realising that he doesn't even live in the same building as his parents (either of them), so why is his dad, of all people, calling him down for breakfast? A knock at the door startles him out of the reverie, and he hurries to make himself presentable for fear it's that odd woman again. "Yeah?"

Mercifully, it's Michelle (his – his sister?) who sticks her head round the door. "You're wanted in the kitchen," she says. "Thomasina was supposed to tell you that your eggs would be forfeited if you didn't show in the next five minutes but I thought I'd save you the embarrassment."

"Oh, uh, thanks. I'll be there in a sec."

She tips her head and frowns slightly. "You okay? You seem a little dazed."

"No, I'm…" He smiles. "I'm fine."

It doesn't seem to satisfy her, but she nods anyway. "I'll see you downstairs, then." Once she leaves, TJ runs a hand through his hair and sucks in a breath. To annoy his father this early on in the morning sounds like a bad idea, so he makes haste and presents himself in the kitchen a few minutes later. He can't help but stand in the doorway for a moment, jaw hanging again as he takes in the bright room (so much bigger than Mom's). Michelle is sat at the table, a plate of scrambled eggs before her with which she is politely engrossed as he goes to sit down opposite her. A thought flashes through his mind, but when he opens his mouth to ask where Dougie is someone else speaks instead.

"I hope there's a good reason for your tardiness this morning."

A man who is unmistakably his father appears next to him, a pan of scrambled eggs in hand, waiting stern-faced for an explanation. TJ stares, mind scrambling for an explanation (when all he really wants is one for himself). "I had a late night. Must've slept through my alarm."

"Clearly," his father grunts. "Thomasina has better things to do than act as your wake-up call – don't let it happen again."

Taken aback by the severe tone, TJ pauses before nodding. "It won't." He can feel Michelle watching him as he scoops his breakfast onto his plate, and he resolutely ignores her for all of two minutes. "What?"

She's quiet for a few seconds; "I saved the paper for you," she tells him, pushing said newspaper across the table.

It's crisp, almost fresh off the press, and he picks it up slowly. "Thanks?" Why'd she done that? He doesn't read newspapers.

His sister blinks. "You're welcome…" The way she says it makes her sound wary, as if she knows that he isn't really who she thinks he is. And, despite knowing that he's never had a sister, TJ is certainly her brother. He just knows. Feeling a headache building, he takes out his mounting frustrations on his breakfast.

"Thomas, I trust you'll be in a fit state to attend the cadet parade this afternoon?" Silas asks.

"Cadet parade?"

"Don't talk with your mouth full. And yes, it's the thirtieth anniversary of the Gilboan Cadet Force. Your attendance was confirmed weeks ago."

"… It was?"

Silas' gaze burns into him as if to say 'don't play dumb'. "You could stand to have your hair cut beforehand," he mutters.

TJ frowns. "Why?"

"Because it's too long," is the steely answer. "These cadets look to you as an example, Thomas, so I expect you to set the right one." Too stunned to respond, TJ goes back to eating his eggs. Breakfast remains a silent affair, though he can feel Michelle's eyes constantly trained on him. He ignores her, but takes the paper.

* * *

><p>It doesn't take Jack long to realise that, wherever he is, he isn't royalty anymore. Well, not in the sense that he's familiar with – intuition had led him to a laptop and a search engine after he'd seen his new mother on the television, and some quick research told him everything he needed to know (already knew). He is the former First Son of the ex-President of a place called America, and according to some journalists his family are 'American Royalty'. Initially put-out, Jack grudgingly accepted that a lowered status may not be such a bad thing, especially if his hazy 'memories' are anything to go by.<p>

One o'clock rolls around far too quickly, and he spends an infuriating half an hour trying to find his grandmother's damn present (what does one get a grandmother?) before searching for something to wrap it in. He's grumpy by the time his brother knocks on his door, and is completely unprepared for the question: "Do you have drugs with you?"

Jack stops in his tracks, staring at Douglas like he'd grown antlers. "Why the hell would I take drugs to Nana's birthday?"

"That's what we asked you once."

He blinks and shakes his head. "No, I don't have anything."

"Empty your pockets."

"Excuse me?"

Douglas sighs, rubbing his forehead. "Jack, come on, Mom'll flip out if she thinks there's even a chance of you getting high today – at both of us."

"Oh, so this is just a way of covering your ass."

"This is for you as much as it's for me."

"And treating me like a child is good for me how?"

His brother works his jaw for a moment, looking him sternly in the eye. "Do you swear that you are telling me the truth? That I'm not going to find you doing coke in the bathroom –"

"Yes, I'm telling the truth, now can we just go?" Jack snaps. The interrogation only serves to sour his mood further, and he's close to just pushing past Douglas and stomping off without him. Luckily, Douglas just nods, leading him out of the apartment block and into a surprisingly modest-looking car. A young woman in the passenger seat greets him as he climbs in – Anne, he guesses – though they hardly converse with each other during the journey. Jack is fine with that; he just wants to know what the hell is happening to him, and how he's going to survive an elderly lady's birthday meal with a family he doesn't feel he fully knows.

But again, Jack is surprised. Once inside their mother's home, Jack watches as she envelopes Douglas and Anne in warm hugs before turning one in his direction, beaming. "Jack."

"Mom." He isn't expecting the embrace to be so tight, and as he forces himself to return the gesture he struggles to recall the last time his mother – his real mother – matched this show of affection.

"It's been too long," Elaine is saying, and she pulls back to look him up and down. Jack unconsciously draws himself up, familiar with being under scrutiny, but when his mother finishes he doesn't expect her to look him in the eye and say "You're looking well."

"Thanks," he stutters, adding on a "You, too," afterwards.

"Thank you sweetie," she say, linking her arm with his. "Nana insisted you wouldn't approve of the outfit, but I think that's just because she doesn't."

"Why would I disapprove of your outfit?"

Elaine chuckles. "Why indeed. Come on, before she starts to moan." She leads him through to a dining room with a large buffet spread out on the table, the likes of which reminds Jack of formal luncheons at the palace, and at the other end of the room he sees Douglas and Anne talking with a small woman.

An odd surge of something rises in his chest, and before he knows it he's smiling. "Hey, Nana."

The woman turns around, her eyes lighting up even as she puts on a scowl. "There you are," she grunts. "Don't you know it's rude to keep old hags like me waiting? Time just makes me older these days."

Jack grins, stooping slightly to embrace her. "You don't look a day over fifty." Her thin arms are far stronger than he anticipates (more so than Mom's).

"Oh, you charmer. Keep that up and I won't use my dark magic on you."

"Mother, for the last time –"

"I know I'm not a witch, Elaine, it's a joke."

"Actually, I think Mom was going to say 'you don't have magic', Nana," Douglas quips, and Margaret turns on him, scandalised.

"You won't be saying that when you find yourself turned into a frog, sweetheart. And just for that you can go and fix up my refill. Anne, honey, you better go with him, you know he's terrible at making anything with more than two liquids in it."

Douglas grins. "Sure, Nana."

"Make one for your brother, too," she instructs as he passes.

Jack sits himself down opposite her, noticing how Elaine goes over to talk quietly with Douglas as he and Anne set about making the drinks. They don't make any indications towards him, but it's quite clear he's the subject of their conversation, and he thinks back to how Douglas interrogated him before they left. Why they think he had a drug problem is beyond him; sure, Jack isn't a stranger to pills and powder, but as a soldier he knows the dangers of indulging in more than just the occasional party-booster. Unless, it suddenly occurs to him, they aren't discussing drugs, but are talking about his behaviour so far in this false world –

"Look at them," his grandmother mutters. "You'd think they were plotting to murder me now that I'm clearly not going to kick the bucket any time soon."

He tears his gaze away from the kitchen to study the woman opposite him, whose white hair and expensive clothes are still fresh to his eyes yet so… Nana. "Nobody's going to murder you."

"Because you'd swoop in and rescue me, huh?"

"Of course." And he would. He can't explain why, and right now he doesn't want to try to, especially not with her giving him a look that's half-shocked half-touched.

"Shut up, you little shit," she eventually says. "It's my birthday, and like I said, I'm not calling it quits just yet." Her eyes twinkle again when she smiles at him, and Jack finds himself smiling back again.

"What are we drinking?" he asks as Anne approaches with glasses.

"Strawberry daiquiri. I had a craving for them a couple of days ago, and thought today would be a good excuse to indulge on it."

Daiquiri isn't something Jack would choose for himself – cocktails in general aren't his thing – but he accepts the drink anyway and enjoys listening to Margaret complain hers is too clean. The rest of the family join them and attention turns to presents. Back in Gilboa, birthdays are so much more formal than this: presents go through screenings when possible, people phone to offer stilted words of good will, and laughter only occurs at the right points in the speech. But this is… intimate. The five of them are gathered around the small pile of gifts, drink in hand or on table, as if they aren't people of national importance but a regular family. Laughter and conversation flow easily in front of him, jibes between mother and daughter both entertaining and endearing. Jack is oddly pleased when Nana opens the present from him and Douglas (an ornate hand mirror and a small selection of cosmetics) and expresses her delight – it feels better than when his mother or father show even a fraction of genuine appreciation on their birthdays.

Which brings up a point of conflict for Jack. He isn't planning on staying in this 'America', and already he can feel himself getting attached to these people. The open love between everyone is mildly alarming to the prince, who still has to blink a few times whenever his mom laughs at something he says or gives his arm a gentle squeeze, and when the time comes for him and Douglas to depart he can't decide if he's relieved or disappointed.

"You'll come and visit soon, won't you?" his mother asks before he goes.

"I'll try."

"Good. And just so you know, it didn't go unnoticed that you stayed off the alcohol tonight."

He shrugs. "It's not a problem."

She smiles that smile again, the one that leaves him feeling strangely happy. "It makes such a difference having you here sober. I'm so glad you're finally sticking with this program." Jack just nods, unsure about what she's referring to, and then she's pulling him into another hug (and all the hugging is getting to be a bit annoying now). "I love you Jonny."

Jack answers back automatically – "Love you too, Mom," – but as soon as he's outside he breathes out shakily. 'Jonny'? That's new. Even in the palace he's rarely called by his real name. Is it part of this enemy's complex mind games? Making him feel comfortable enough that he won't want to leave? Maybe this is more than an enemy plot, he begins to think on the way back. A tiny part of him briefly hopes it is.

* * *

><p>TJ is ready to collapse by dinner time. He never would've guessed standing still could be so exhausting – then again, with a man like Silas watching his every move (or attempt at not moving), he decides he could be forgiven. He can't remember the last time he had to work so hard to please someone, and even then it wasn't clear whether he had performed well enough to meet standards. And it was performing; TJ was not made for the military. But in the middle of a parade what was he supposed to say: that he'd never set foot in a military establishment in his life? That he has no recollection of making the rank of Captain, let alone going through any training of any sort? He's already learnt not to say the wrong thing in front of his new father. Why he is enlisted here is as much of a mystery as it has to be a joke. If Douglas caught wind of this, he'd say he was on drugs again.<p>

At least he's worked out who he is, if that made sense. When he'd overheard a news reporter refer to him as Crown Prince Thomas Benjamin, TJ had nearly laughed; it wasn't until Silas was addressed as 'Your Highness' that it seemed possible, and his jaw had, again, hung open until the King (his father, the King. What the hell?) had promptly told him to close it. Back in America, his family has always been considered close to royalty by the tabloids, and TJ entertained the idea. Only a few hours into being actual royalty and he's already decided it isn't all it's cracked up to be.

"Ah, there you are. Michelle thought you'd left, but the guards said they hadn't seen you. Thank goodness I didn't send Thomasina on the hunt."

From the couch he is slumped on, TJ opens one eye and spies an elegant woman heading towards him. She could be the same age as his mom, but looks considerably less intimidating. Her simple dress appears expensive, as does the jewellery she'd picked out to match it, and her shoes click softly but noticeably on the polished wooden floor as she strides closer. From dress-sense alone TJ pens her down as the Queen, but even if he hadn't opened his eye he would have known his mother's voice the moment she spoke.

Rose Benjamin stands at the end of the couch, regal even in stillness, and tilts her head minutely as she scrutinises him. "I do hope you have something better to wear than your uniform, Thomas, you've been in it practically all day," she admonishes.

"Better to wear for what?" All he wants to do is sleep. Then maybe find somewhere to have a few drinks and forget about everything.

"Dinner," Rose says, beckoning to an aide.

"Dinner."

"Mm, we're entertaining the Rosenthals tonight, remember?" She takes a menu from the aide, scanning the contents as she speaks. "You'll be escort for Lord Rosenthal's daughter Miranda. A pretty girl, if a little quiet, but you should find her company quite agreeable."

The menu is offered to him as he sits up, and he accepts it automatically. "Escort?"

"Yes – and tonight you will stay as long as our guests; no disappearing as soon as the table is cleared, do you understand?"

The food is extravagant – fit for a king, he thinks wryly. Three full courses with over-complicated names and explanations, the likes of which TJ doesn't even remember seeing during the handful of state dinners he and Dougie were made to attend. "Yeah," he says absently, "sure."

"Good. Now please, go and change. Henry Rosenthal died in the war a few months ago and I will not have our guests made uncomfortable by your lack of indiscretion," his mother commands, turning to leave. "There should be enough time for you to go to your apartment if there's nothing suitable here."

"Wait – uh… why do I have to escort this girl exactly?"

Rose stops by the door, giving him a look of exasperation. "You will escort Miranda Rosenthal because you are the Prince, and it is what princes do. She is expecting to be treated like a lady tonight and I promised her father you wouldn't disappoint."

"But I've never met her before. I mean, what if she turns out to be a stuck-up little bitch?"

His mother's expression could kill a large flock of butterflies. TJ swallows. "This is an important meal, Thomas. You will behave as expected." She turns on her heel and leaves with a final "Seven-thirty, sharp," called over her shoulder. Once she's gone, he lets the menu fall to the floor, scowling.

Yet when seven-thirty shows on the clocks, TJ finds himself suited up and ready to dine. He'd come to the alcohol-aided conclusion that avoiding the dinner altogether would result in far too much grief from his parents afterwards to be worthwhile, and had taken some consolation from the simple act of choosing a 'princely' outfit, despite all the suits in the wardrobe being already matched-up. It's a relief to realise he'd chosen the right level of formality, too, once he joins up with the rest of his family. Michelle raises an eyebrow at him, and he rolls his eyes. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"Didn't doubt you wouldn't be."

"Oh." He looks around the reception room. "Aren't they here yet?"

"Just arriving. You'll get to woo Miss Miranda soon enough."

"Why would I want to do that?" he chuckles. Michelle gives him a funny look, but before their conversation can continue Rose descends upon him.

"Well at least one of the men in this family can dress himself!" she says loudly (with a grumbled response from Silas), placing her hands on TJ's shoulders. "You look very handsome. I approve." TJ smiles. "And so will Miranda, I think."

He stops smiling, Michelle's words taking on a new meaning. "I thought you said I just had to be nice to her?"

The Queen straightens the edges of his suit, a smile of her own still on her face. "And in doing so assess the possibility of spending more time with her – you know how this works."

"You told me this was going to be a diplomatic meal, not some pointless match-making fiasco –"

"Now now, none of that." His mother squeezes his arms, practically beaming at him. "There's nothing for you to worry about. You'll dazzle her as you always do, Tommy, of that I have no doubt."

"Don't call me that." There's only one person who has the privilege of using that nickname. There will only ever be one.

Rose's smile dims fractionally. "Oh, come now – you may not be my little boy anymore but allow a mother her moments," she chuckles, laying a hand on his cheek. TJ doesn't flinch away. Much.

"What's the matter with you?" Michelle asks quietly as the Rosenthals are shown in.

He spares her a sullen glance. The probing reminds him of Douglas, and he sighs. "Long day," he mutters. Then Miranda Rosenthal is being introduced to him, and he is smiling and nodding his head politely (and trying not to burst into laughter when she actually fucking curtsies) and walking to the dining hall beside her. His father catches his eye as he passes through the doorway, and there seems to be a warning in them, probably in relation to his 'behaviour' during the parade. TJ meets it levelly, noticing how his dad's glares back in the real world (because this is most definitely a dream) now looked pale in comparison.

Dinner is lengthy and full of polite conversation, forced on his end. Miranda is… well, she's dull, to be honest. He guesses that she has to be seventeen, maybe nineteen tops, and completely out of her element around him. Michelle tries to coax more than a mumbled response from her (and why isn't his sister on 'escort' duty?) but just grows increasingly disappointed as the meal continues. TJ, on the other hand, grows increasingly intoxicated. Not to the point where he can't function 'appropriately' – it's only wine, for God's sake – but still not enough for his liking. It's a small blessing that the food is outstanding, and as the main course is finally cleared away TJ begins coming up with ways he could escape this trap and sneak a pick-me-up or two.

"Miranda, I trust my children are keeping you suitably entertained this evening?" Silas suddenly asks.

The girl smiles meekly at the King. "Yes sir. They've been most attentive."

He looks at TJ. "I'm glad to hear it."

"We've been discussing art, Father," Michelle informs him – and TJ.

"Oh no," Silas groans. "I had this conversation with your mother. Twenty-five years ago. I'd hoped never to hear it again."

The adults laugh, but Michelle presses on. "Shouldn't there be more of it in the city, though? Especially since Shiloh's inauguration as capital is still fairly recent. Lots of people like to celebrate through art –"

"And many others are bored by it."

"You don't appreciate paintings, sir?" Lord Rosenthal inquires.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, just that my wife takes far more interest in the subject than I. Partly because she has the time and the eye for it."

"It is a subject one should make time for," Rose insists, "especially a king."

"When the kingdom runs itself I shall start a private collection."

"And what is the Prince's view on all of this?" Rosenthal suddenly asks, turning his head in TJ's direction. Every other pair of eyes does the same, and TJ feels the blood drain from his face.

"I think art can be good," he says slowly, words pathetic even to his own ears. "Interiors wouldn't look as nice without a picture or two. Plain walls are boring."

The next question comes from Lady Rosenthal beside him: "Do you have a favourite artist at all?" TJ flounders.

"If Thomas could name more than two artists who don't happen to be friends of his I would be worried," his mother jests, and Lady Rosenthal laughs delicately. "Alas, the arts are wasted on my son, though I think it's obvious who's at fault for that."

"Had I a son who showed more interest in painting his kingdom than defending it I would have despaired," Silas declares, and the Rosenthals exchange mournful looks (the Queen frowns at her husband). TJ rubs his eyes and signals for a refill. Long day or not, it looks set to be an even longer evening.

* * *

><p>Douglas takes him out to lunch one day. Jack isn't sure if he's relieved or despairing: on the one hand, it's a blessing to finally have something to do besides watch the news channels, trying to understand what this new world is like, but on the other hand, he doesn't know that he likes Douglas all that much. He's nosy bordering on intrusive, and watches Jack as if he's about to do or say something monumentally stupid. There haven't been any more drug searches, thank god, but there's an overprotective edge to his brother that bothers Jack, if only because he knows it revolves largely around him. He wonders if he can use it to manipulate Douglas like he can his mother, though to what end he isn't sure. It's something to think about later, perhaps.<p>

"Have you heard about Dad lately?" Douglas asks over a sandwich.

Bud Hammond, former President of the United States. Jack's done his reading and knows enough about his father to guess what Douglas is going to say, but he might have glossed over the gossip sections of the news. "What's he done now?"

"He was caught in bed with the owner of a leading pharmaceutical firm's daughter."

Jack nods. "Of course he was. Dare I ask how old she is?"

"Our age." Douglas snorts at his reaction. "I think that was what my face looked like when I heard about it."

"How did you find out?"

"A friend of Annie's knows the girl. She phoned up this morning."

Making a noise of understanding, Jack leaves his brother to his sandwich as a beautiful woman passes by. He makes a subtle show of watching her – she's dressed in a short, tight-fitting red dress that highlights both curves and legs, so it's not like she doesn't want to attract attention – and when he turns back Douglas is staring incredulously at him. "What?"

He points at the woman. "Were you – were you checking her out?"

"Yeah, and?"

His brother continues to give him a funny look. "Nothing, it's just… I don't often see you, uh, 'eyeing up' women. Especially not with… intent."

"Why wouldn't I?" Jack asks. "I don't have a girlfriend; I'm allowed to look."

To his surprise, Douglas laughs. "If you ever had a girlfriend, the press would start a riot!"

"Because the former First Son is getting some?"

"Because the former First Son came out to the nation fourteen years ago! They'll declare it some kind of sympathy scandal on Mom and Dad's behalf, a lie on your part, or that someone's blackmailing you or something – I don't know, but you know what journalists are like."

His words are spoken casually, but Jack is stunned nonetheless. He can't quite formulate a response, and stays quiet long enough for Douglas to look at him in concern. "Sorry, um, I just… I – I wouldn't want that to happen."

"None of us would," Douglas agrees kindly. "But it won't, so, no use worrying about it, right?"

"What won't?"

"People won't think you lied about being gay."

Force a smile, force a laugh, feign ease. "Right, of course." Don't let him see how deep the shock goes.

* * *

><p>The coffee is blessedly strong. It's a perk to being royalty TJ's come to enjoy: the ability to have pretty much the best of everything near on-demand. Back in the states, it wasn't so different, but since moving out of the White House the privilege has lessened some. Regardless, it's nice to know that a strong coffee in Gilboa is as good as a strong coffee in Washington DC, and he'd inhale it if it wasn't for the scalding heat. Last night is a blur; when offered the chance to escape the palace, TJ hadn't second guessed himself and taken off. It had been a glorious decision – the access he had was something he'd only dreamed of in the states, where he still had to pay unless everything was pre-booked, and the company hadn't been bad either. It had been slightly annoying when some women wouldn't leave him alone, and it had been hard to deal with people he'd never met before suddenly appearing as old friends, but by the time he'd been guided home and into a bed TJ had been thoroughly blissed-out. It helped that he'd spent a long time flirting with a very cute guy, but he'd been careful not to let things progress too far.<p>

Now, though, as usual, he's regretting that even more. Trudging into the kitchen he prays silently that it'll be empty, and he nearly has his wish granted; there's no sign of Michelle or the Queen, nor of that creepy Thomasina, but as he sits at the table he registers the usual figure stood at the stove, pan and spatula in hand, cold eyes watching his movements better than any hawk. He represses a groan. The last thing TJ wants is to suffer his father's ire hung-over. God, however, seems much more prevalent in this dream land he's come to find himself in (because it's the only plausible reason for… this – he's likely overdosed, maybe drunk too much, and is now comatose and dreaming of this bullshit as punishment), and is not taking kindly to TJ's late antics.

"Your mother and I have warned you, time and again, about this – this 'lifestyle' of yours, Thomas, and time and again you continue to ignore us and act irresponsibly in front of the paparazzi!"

Head bent over his coffee, TJ sighs deeply. "It's just a bit of partying," he argues. "I needed to blow some steam."

"Then I suggest you find a less destructive outlet," Silas snaps. "One that doesn't tarnish your image."

"Why should you care what I do to my 'image'?" he asks, raising his head.

The King isn't looking at him when he speaks, focusing instead on the scrambled eggs in his pan. "You are the Prince of this nation, the future king. Your image needs to reflect that, and at the minute it doesn't."

"What, because I enjoy a party and drink a little too much booze?" TJ throws back. "Funny, but I thought that's what people my age did."

"Oh I'm not talking about that."

"What then?"

Silas put down the spatula, levelling TJ with a glare strong enough to topple an elephant. "What heir to the throne would disgrace himself and his family by sticking his hand down the fronts of boys' pants?"

The room suddenly goes very cold. TJ bristles, swallowing as he wraps his head around what was just said. "I'm a disgrace to you?" He's been called worse, but never by family before.

His father stalks over to the table, leaning into his face. "If you were my second son," he growls, "I wouldn't care, but for a king it's not –"

"I'm not a king," he spits back. "And it's none of your goddamn business anyway!"

"Of course it's my business! You're the one who'll carry on the name of Benjamin!"

"Well maybe I don't want to!"

"Tough. You're going to have to."

"Or else what?"

Silas straightens up, his gaze never leaving TJ, and if the atmosphere was hot with the sparks of anger just moments ago it's now as cold as the inside of a freezer. "You'll have to earn your place in this family another way."

* * *

><p>The first time Jack sees Vice President Fred Collier he nearly spits his drink out. Staring at the TV, he snorts and shakes his head, because of course his uncle would find his way into this new world through a position of power. He raises him a half-arsed toast, and hopes they don't meet anytime soon.<p>

* * *

><p>TJ wasn't quite sure what was worse: knowing that Fucking Fred was part of his coma dream, or that his brain had, for some God-forsaken reason, decided to make him his uncle. And the man actually seems to care for TJ, to top it all off. Shortly after their first encounter, he makes sure to wash the memory away.<p>

* * *

><p>The text message has Jack raising his eyebrows; <em>Coming into DC tomorrow. My place or yours? x<em>

The number is blocked, and there's no message history for him to trace, but Jack's made enough secret rendezvouses to know when he's looking at one. His curiosity is peaked enough to text back, and he realises it's been a while since he's been 'satisfied' by another person. It's a minor relief, too, to know that he's still had to indulge his nature in secret despite the whole country apparently being in the know (a thought that still turns his stomach and has him looking over his shoulder), if only because the routine is familiar. Once the meeting is arranged, a lick of excitement curls low in his abdomen, and he quells it only by distracting himself with awful television – though, admittedly, it's better than seeing his father's legacy sprawled all over the news. Just.

Tomorrow arrives at a snail's pace, but it does arrive. Jack dresses casually, bemoaning the fact he can't have a drink beforehand, and tries not to think about who's waiting for him. He's marginally surprised to find he already knows the way to Sean's place – Sean, yes, that's his name – and doesn't rush to get there. On the way, he recalls past encounters of such a nature back in Gilboa: rarely planned to this degree, they had always been much more spontaneous, a meeting of eyes in the dark rainbow lights of clubs, fleeting, precisely-worded conversations to confirm or deny, a glance over the shoulder and off into the shadows for a satisfying moment of realism. No names, no repeat performances – with one exception. But Joseph isn't here, and Jack can deal with that.

The apartment block he arrives at is ostentatious in the sense that it screams wealth. It makes sense, considering his family's position, though Jack always got a kick from flaunting his image to those desperate enough to near sell themselves to him. He can't fathom it, being so desperate to claw for that otherworldliness his mother convinced the land the Royal Family affected. That's not to say his hook ups were dirt-poor – nobody at those kinds of parties was – but neither did they live in establishments like this. When Sean opens the door, he's everything Jack was expecting. It's… disappointing.

"Hey."

"Hi."

"Come on in."

The interior is as lush as the exterior, with the only difference being an improved level of comfort. He doesn't dwell on it though, turning to Sean as he closes the door.

"I missed you."

"Yeah?" Bright blonde hair, bright blue eyes, bright white smile, nearly-bright shirt. Whatever Sean does, he's high on the social ladder, and Jack wants to know who's higher up: him, or Sean. (He hopes it's him.)

"Of course." Sean steps closer with a sigh. "You wouldn't believe how dull this last week has been."

"Well don't bore me, too." Jack's an impatient soul. That's not a flaw. "I thought you invited me here for a different reason?"

He laughs. "You don't want a drink first?"

"No." Even though he initiates the kiss, a barely-there memory tells him Sean is usually the one who takes the lead. That, he thinks, will not be the case – control is Jack's privilege. He is the one people want to be with, and so he takes his pleasure from them; after all, they're so willing to give him what he wants, why waste it? And no, it has nothing to do with the fact that it's beyond the knowledge of his family, his father, the only time he can be himself…

Kissing Sean is not at all like kissing Joseph. He's insistent, a little pushy, and just as expected he wants to be the one calling the shots. Jack finds it amusing, and he's ready to do battle when he feels a slither of something hard against his cheek. Pulling back under the pretence of removing clothing, he spies a ring on Sean's left hand. A wedding ring. Oh, yes, Sean is indeed something he wants to try, as riddled with secrets as Jack is. Was. Is. Never mind – all that matters now is he has an attractive man wanting to lose himself in Jack, and if he weren't so busy admiring those muscles (is that an eight-pack?) the Prince would laugh at the irony. They kiss again, all desperate intensity, revelling in their true nature, and however other many clichéd tropes can be used to describe it; but that split second where Sean falters, surprised, Jack seizes his moment and takes control.

* * *

><p>Being accosted in night clubs isn't new, per se, but when all the guy does is subtly hint at a designated meeting place 'later', even TJ is hard-pressed to ignore the onslaught of curiosity. He came here to escape that fucking monstrosity of a palace, with its suits and its personnel and the King and his mother, and if doing that means following the lead of some guy who's practically saying 'I wanna blow you', then yes please and thank you very much.<p>

It's been too long since he cut loose like this. Ronny, a 'friend', handed him a bag of pills at the start of the night, and TJ had to give most of them to someone else so he doesn't overdo it. The temptation was there, as it always is, but he's managed so far to stay away from the truly damaging stuff. How long has it been now? A few months? Whatever, point made, and after the shit he's been through lately he needs a break, just one night at least where he can unwind and follow this cute guy through the crowd. In fact, why wait?

At the edge of the dance floor he reaches out and grabs Josh – Jeph – Joseph! – Joseph's arm and pulls him round to face him, quickly closing the distance between them and pressing their lips together. It's great, for the whole second that it lasts, and he pouts as Joseph stares at him, eyes wide enough to make TJ giggle instead, because he looks so comically surprised, as if he hadn't expected to be kissing him at all.

"What are you doing?"

"Kissing you, what d'you think I'm doing?"

"Out here?"

"Well why not?"

"People will see…" He actually looks over his shoulder. It's too much. Almost doubled over with laughter, TJ crowds close, throwing his arm around Joseph's back.

"So what? I'm TJ Hamm- Benjamin. I shouldn't have to fucking hide. And I don't give a shit about the King, either," he spits. "I mean, what's he gonna do, lock me up? No, wait –" He makes a gesture with his drink (huh, he still has that). "He said he'd throw me out!" It's all so damn dramatic, he has to laugh, now that he can. "I mean, can you believe that?"

"No, that's… awful." Somehow, Joseph's guided him out of the spotlights and somewhere quieter, and TJ briefly misses the chaos before his attention zeroes in on Joseph and the bare expanse of wall just waiting for the two of them to desecrate it. He drops his drink (literally – oops) and presses in. Joseph frowns a little. It's adorable. "You're very drunk."

"And you're very cute." And there, at last, is a smile, and God if it doesn't make him look so much more – gah, what's the use of words? Actions! Actions are much better. Much more… action-y. Declarative? Big word. Stop thinking and start kissing.

As he thought, Joseph is soft – soft to touch, soft of touch, and totally unresisting to TJ's demands. Whether it's alcohol or pills or just the fact that TJ hasn't been getting any for so long, he utterly loses himself in need and desire and the downright good feeling of kissing another guy, and screw Silas and anyone else who tells him this is wrong because holy shit how can it be if it feels like this? He got over the attacks long ago, though they're still thrown at him, even after fourteen years – never to the degree of Silas, though he's discounting that, because he's not a Prince, he's the former First Son of the ex-President of the United States of America, and his family love him, and don't care that he loves men. They understand. They know he's done things like this with other guys like Joseph, to men like Sean, and they don't threaten to throw him –

Fuck. TJ stops kissing Joseph. "Shit."

"What?"

"Oh my god."

"TJ?"

"Oh, god, no!"

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"No!" What is he doing? What was he thinking? "No, no, please, fuck, no!" He digs his fingers in his hair. His brain's in there somewhere.

"TJ, talk to me." Hands tug on his shirt, and he reaches out blindly, finding a body to hold onto as he tries to right himself in the quickly blurring alleyway – gods, an alleyway! He's lost it, he lost control, he wasn't thinking – "Please."

Breathing becomes a struggle, but he chokes out a single word: "Sean."

Joseph looks confused. TJ wants both to cling to him and throw him away. "Who's Sean?" Who's Sean? Sean is… Sean is everything! He's strong, passionate, gorgeous, dedicated, conflicted, funny, love –

Sean isn't here.

* * *

><p>"Jack! How are you, son?"<p>

"Dad?" This is unexpected. His tone clearly conveys as much.

"Ah, don't sound so surprised. Can't I call once in a while to see how my boys are doing?"

Something tells him there's an ulterior motive. "I'm fine."

"Good, good. Still staying away from the drugs?"

He grinds his jaw. "Yes."

"I'm pleased to hear that."

"What do you want, Dad?"

Bud mutters something before getting to the point. "Now, I thought that, since you don't have much to occupy your time these days, you'd be interested in taking up a quick job I reckon you'd be perfect for."

Like what? "Okay…"

"I've been in Hollywood for a couple of days, been shown around a couple of film sets, and I got talking to one of the directors. He's making this… romantic flick, I think, or something like that, and mentioned that he was looking for a pianist for a particular scene." Oh. "Well I told him you played, and he said he'd be interested in having you fill the part. It's not much, you'd just have to play for a couple of minutes –"

"Thanks, Dad, but I'm not interested."

"Oh, Jack, come on."

"I'm sorry, but it's not what I want."

"You always say that, and I cannot understand why! The piano made you happy –"

"Maybe it doesn't anymore." Never mind the fact that he can't play the sodding thing.

"Ah, bullshit, I bet Margaret still gets you to play a piece from time to time."

"Actually you're wrong. I can't remember the last time you played."

There's a deep sigh down the phone. "Jack, I'm offering you an opportunity here, son –"

"An opportunity to do what? To make you look good?" It's all he's ever had to do for his father.

"No, of course not!"

"Then I appreciate the thought, but no. Now is that all?"

Bud tries making small talk, but it's stilted and closer to an interrogation. He ends up trying to get information on Elaine, and Jack gives him as little as possible: yes, she's fine. Her career's fine. No, she doesn't mention him. No, there's no-one else, not that that's any of Bud's business. The only question Jack asks is which actress Bud was fucking to get an invite onto that film set, and his father suddenly has to go. Ending the call, Jack quietly scoffs at the phone. Presidents and kings – not much difference underneath it all.

* * *

><p>Thomasina is an enigma, and not the person TJ wants to see right now. He used to like her, he thinks. She gave him and Michelle treats in secret. Now, she's the dragon doing his father's bidding. "You're wanted at the palace today, sir."<p>

He represses a groan, tries burying himself into his bed. "Fuck the palace."

"It's a military council. The King thought you'd want to be present."

"Why?"

She answers coolly; "Because you're in the military."

"I didn't ask to be," he mutters into the pillow. The very thought of being in the military makes his stomach churn. Soldiers die, away from loved ones, in a hostile land, or else they come back a traumatised mess. Sean didn't want to be a soldier.

The King's dragon waits out his silence. "If you aren't going to go to the palace sir, then your mother also requested you and Michelle speak to her at some point today."

Opening one eye, TJ squints at her. "What for?"

"I didn't ask."

"Course not." He sighs through his nose, presses his forehead against his pillow until he can feel the mattress beneath it. His head still pounds. "Aren't you sick of it?"

"Sir?"

"Being my father's bitch." It sounds harsher than he intended, and he winces. "I mean – sorry, uh…" Why bother? Last night already served to remind him what a fuck-up he can be.

"King Silas trusts me," she says, to his surprise, "and he treats me well. Serving him is both an honour and a privilege."

He raises his head at that, peering at her uncomprehendingly. "How can you think that?"

She says nothing. Her eyes flick down, then back up again. "Which will it be, sir? The council, or the Queen?"

The decision feels like a sentencing; he can imagine Thomasina offering him a choice of guillotine or car crash. He doesn't want to do either – he wants to wallow in his pain, to think of little else besides Sean and his family back home, of that nightclub plan he'd heard rumours about. Owning a nightclub would be something he'd consider. But he knows Thomasina won't leave until he gives her an answer, so he caves (he just can't say no anymore, can he?) and picks the less painful option. Thomasina leaves, far too quietly for a dragon, and TJ grabs his phone, sending a cry of help to Ronny.

_When's the next party?_

* * *

><p>"… which of course Fred Collier instantly disapproved of, but I think Garcetti will see sense and ignore his objections this time around. Honestly, sometimes I struggle to believe that man really is a Democrat."<p>

Jack smiles as his mother hands him a coffee. "Garcetti listens to you. Make him see that Collier's being an idiot and he'll have to agree."

She sighs as she takes her seat next to him. "Yes, you're probably right." Giving him a sidelong glance, she then asks, "When did you become so interested in politics?"

He shrugs. "Not 'interested'. Just offering support."

His mom smiles, giving his arm a squeeze, and he smiles back. He drinks his coffee in the following silence, basking in an unfamiliar sense of comfort. It's… nice; he'd maybe go so far as to say he likes it. Then: "Jonathan, there's something I've been meaning to ask you."

The seriousness of her tone and the use of his birth name has Jack straightening unconsciously in his seat. In another lifetime, Jonathan was just a royal name, sparsely used except when talking about his future. Something tells him that's not what's happening now, and he waits for Elaine to speak. When she does, she looks him dead in the eye, and he's powerless to look away.

"Have you been going to NA meetings or not?"

Annoyance flares up inside him at first, but then he properly reads her – she's worried. She's genuinely concerned for him. This is a mother wanting to know that her child is okay, that her son isn't sneaking around behind her back, dancing with death under her nose. The realisation is temporarily stunning, and when he comes back to himself and remembers to answer Jack just about manages to force out a "No."

Elaine frowns, every line on her face deepening. "Why not?"

She doesn't sound cross or accusatory, but Jack sighs all the same. "Because I don't need to. Look, I have absolutely no desire to take anything that might put my health at risk, Mom, I swear. It's not that I'm not going because I don't want to, it's because I don't need to. I'm clean, I promise."

"And you're sure you can stay clean on your own?"

He nods, never breaking eye contact. "Yes."

Her shoulders relax fractionally, her expression softens, and a small smile appears on her lips. "Okay." She takes his hand in hers, squeezing it tightly. "I know I've said it before but I'm going to say it again: I am so, so proud of you, Jack. You've overcome a massive hurdle by doing this, and you wouldn't believe the difference it's made in all our lives. I want you to remember that if you ever need to talk to me, I will do my best to set aside some time for you, and I know Douglas would do the same. And if not us, there's always Nana –"

"I know, Mama." He's smiling too, even returning the grip she has on his hand. "Thanks."

"That's alright, sweetie." Elaine releases him, and they enjoy the silence for another moment. "Oh, I almost forgot – Douglas and Anne are coming over for dinner this weekend. Will you be able to make it too?"

To his surprise, the idea is highly appealing. "Absolutely." He really wants to. And the way his mother's face lights up? He'd go for that reason alone. So later, when he receives a text from Sean asking if he wants to meet up again on the same day, he ignores it.

* * *

><p>The photographs land on the table with a smack. TJ flinches at the sound. Rose stands above him, hands fixed to her hips. "Tell me this isn't what it looks like."<p>

Two shapes, distinctly humanoid, are leaning against a wall behind a nightclub. One has light coloured hair and smart-casual clothes, the other has brown hair and a stylish, expensive-looking outfit. The brown-haired man has the light-haired man pinned to the wall, no gap between the bodies, a hand on his neck while the other's are hidden under his shirt. They're pictures of him and Joseph, all very incriminating, and he sighs. Once he'd come to terms with the fact that Sean wasn't around, he'd sought Joseph out again. And again. And maybe once more. And perhaps that last time, he'd been riding on more than a few happy pills. Regardless, he's not in the mood for his mother's ire, so he looks at her with one eyebrow raised and says: "It looks like a stack of photos."

A muscle twitches in her jaw. "Your uncle handed these to me after they were nearly published in the free media. Do you have any idea how close you came to having your reputation ruined Thomas?"

"Why would my reputation have been ruined?"

"This," she hisses, a perfectly manufactured nail angled down towards the pictures, "is not the behaviour of a prince."

He chuckles bleakly. "I think actually it is."

"It can't be."

"Why the fuck not?" he demands.

"Because you have a responsibility –"

"Oh, Jesus, not this again –"

"– to the throne and this kingdom, and that includes finding a suitable wife, not indulging in… in…"

"In what?" He knows she won't say anything, and he's right.

Rose puts a hand on his shoulder, holding him in place. "You have to rectify this mistake."

TJ stares at her. "Mistake?" Did she really just –?

"We can keep it secret." She goes on as if he hasn't spoken. "You're going back to the front in a few days. These haven't leaked, so no-one will be the wiser –"

He stands up, shrugging out of her grip. "What are you talking about – this is not a mistake!" (Not now, anyway.)

The way she looks at him, like he's a child misunderstanding something simple, makes his skin crawl. "You were drunk. You didn't know what you were doing –"

"The hell I didn't!" He takes the top picture, holds it facing her, and jabs his finger at the figures. "This is me, and that's the guy I'm making out with. By choice."

"Thomas –"

"I've done it plenty of times before, and I'd do it again. You know why? Because I like it, Mom! I like to kiss men, and I've even fallen in love with –"

The sound of the slap registers before the sting. He touches the spot, turns back to see her watching him, and she looks… frightened. They stay like that for god knows how long, before in the suffocating silence the Queen whispers, "What's wrong with you?"

TJ blinks, swallows, and blinks some more. He shakes his head, stepping backwards as he answers, equally quietly, "I don't know anymore."

* * *

><p>Elaine raises her glass. "To Anne and Douglas," she says, "and their wonderful news."<p>

"To Anne and Dougie," Jack echoes along with Margaret, then everybody's clinking glasses and smiling and Douglas and Anne can't tear their eyes away from one another – nor help sharing another kiss – and his mother's asking to see the ring again while Nana goes on about how engagements were different back when she was a girl, and everything is good. No, Jack thinks, everything is actually great. Douglas is engaged. His mom is the happiest he's ever seen her. Nana, too, has less to complain about this evening. He's not bothered about Sean, even though he's had a few calls from the man (he just isn't his type). His father hasn't called again either. He brings it up as a point of conversation.

"You know, he hasn't called me in months," Dougie says, grinning, "you should feel special, Jack."

"I'd rather he didn't call at all."

"Well, he is your father," Mom reminds him. "Just because we're divorced doesn't mean he's not allowed to speak to you. And he was offering you a job."

"A job I wasn't interested in."

"But I thought you liked the piano?"

He sighs. "I don't dislike it, I just don't have the urge to play anymore. Especially not professionally."

"Oh, you could have a blast playing professionally, honey," Nana says. "I knew this pianist back in my show days – Michal his name was. Polish boy. Not very experienced at playing live, but my god did he know how to use those fingers –"

"Mother, please, not at the table!"

Jack was laughing, loudly, and knew Douglas and Anne were trying not to as well. Trying, and failing. Nana went on undeterred, telling them all about the rumours surrounding Michal's proficiency in things besides piano playing, until his Mom declared it was time for coffee and moved them all into the living room and on to more polite conversation. His brother and Anne stayed late, escaping only after Elaine had had Anne promise to get straight on discussing wedding plans with her, and not long after that Nana excused herself for bed. Jack looked at the clock, wondering if it was time he left too, but was interrupted by his mom's voice.

"Will you stay, Jonny?"

"Sure." He hardly needed to give it any thought.

* * *

><p>TJ raises his head, screwing his eyes shut as the buzz surges through him, electric and ice and soothing and exciting all at once, and when he blinks open his eyes this time everything takes another second longer to come into focus. The music is just a pounding in the background. It might be cold outside, he doesn't know. His security detail is… somewhere. There's another two lines waiting patiently on the low table, and he leans down to take the next one before it disappears.<p>

Clubs don't feel like an escape these days. He hasn't seen Joseph since the night they were photographed. The King and Queen barely speak to him. Michelle tries, but mostly she just frowns between all of them. There's disappointment everywhere he turns. He threw out that fucking uniform, too – at least, he thinks he did. Could have been a dream. Hell, maybe this is a dream.

He laughs. Of course, this whole world is a dream, because what other explanation could there be? He ODed, and this is his subconscious, or his unconscious, or his conscience trying to show him the error of his ways; 'stop fucking up' is the message, and it's received loud and clear. So that's why he's getting out of here. It's an easy plan: if OD-ing got him into this, OD-ing can get him out. TJ wonders why he hadn't thought of it before, and he's glad he came to the realisation before it was too late. His leave ends in two days, apparently. He'd be sent back out into whatever war is raging on wherever over something petty and stupid, where he'd probably die a horrible death or, more likely, be responsible for hundreds of horrible deaths.

So no armies. No kings, no queens, no being princely and attending this and that and meeting expectations. He wants to get back home, to his mom and his brother, to Nana, to Sean (if he'll have him – God, he's fucked up spectacularly somehow, he'd been sober for so long), and normal fucking life. Hell, he even misses the piano. Bent over for the next line, TJ laughs, vision completely blurring over as he presses his forehead against the table. God, he'd give anything to go back to that piano.

The clock is ticking. Hard as it's becoming, TJ concentrates on getting out.

* * *

><p>"… like politics or not, the thing that everyone's talking about are the recent speculations that former First Son Jonathan Hammond may, in fact, be engaged to partner of two years Isaac Cahill. Rumours started circulating a few days ago that a proposal had been made and accepted, but we still don't know who asked who or if there was a question at all. However, comments made by the Hammond family have boosted the possibility of all these rumours being true; although Jack Hammond and his partner have yet to publicly address the issue, Douglas Hammond, second son of the former President Bud Hammond and Jack's twin, assured us that if his brother had anything to announce, 'it would be announced when the time was right'. Secretary of State Elaine Barrish reportedly said she had 'no intention' of divulging her son's secrets, and would 'support him and Isaac, whatever they decide'. It's suspected that, if an engagement is to be announced, such an announcement will be made after the Presidential Elections, in which Elaine Barrish is running for a second time. The whole family will be participating…"<p>

* * *

><p>"… almost two years since the death of Crown Prince Thomas Benjamin, and the tragedy is still felt strongly around the nation. The Prince was found unconscious behind a night club in Gilboa's capital city Shiloh just two days before he was due to return to the front lines of the war, and died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. Official reports then said that the cause of death was not assault, as originally speculated, but a drugs overdose. Prince Thomas was just twenty-six years old. In the period following his death it was suggested that the overdose was not an accident but, in fact, suicide; both friends of the royal family and officials admitted to noticing 'something different' about the Prince during his leave from the war, and even the Crown Princess Michelle Benjamin reportedly said that 'there was something that didn't seem quite right about him'. This has led to calls from the public to do more in terms of caring for traumatised soldiers and individuals suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, although it was never confirmed that the Prince himself was afflicted with the condition. The Royal Family will not…"<p>

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>*whispers* please don't hate me...!


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